


i'll be with you from dusk to dawn

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 11:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12506348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (baby i'm right here)"An ornate coffin is buried under the tombstone for one ‘Grace Helen Shelby, beloved wife and mother’. Aside from the shattered pieces of a sapphire, rumoured to be cursed, it is empty."





	i'll be with you from dusk to dawn

_"You underestimate me in every way."_

 

The Italians were kind enough to gift her with a bullet wound to match Tommy’s own, so now she will carry a gun. The weapon is small enough to be concealed on her person, but more than capable of causing serious harm – of killing someone, if it comes to that. There shall be a time when she will be able to ensure her ‘no guns in the house’ rule is followed, but unfortunately it seems as if that time will not be now, no matter how much she wishes it could be. The Italians dared to try and take her away from Tommy, from their son, and so she shall once more carry a gun in her purse. Her husband may never admit it, but Tommy needs all the help with the Russians he can muster, and she cannot help him if she is six feet underground.

They devise a plan, whispering late at night whilst Charlie is sleeping, and as the sun rises Grace dyes her hair. It takes an hour or so to work, a thick black dye which covers her recognisable blonde waves. It shall only last for a few months, and she hopes that will be enough time for everything to be put to order once more. Just a few months, and after that the guns shall go away, the illegal business well and truly finished. Just a few months, and she will return and they can be a family once more. Just a few months, and then they can raise Charlie in relative peace, their son Tommy’s heir to a legitimate business which shall never see him forced to kill a man.

She wants this peace not only for herself and Tommy, but for his family as well.

For Arthur, who has found happiness in Linda, a happiness Grace cannot begrudge him no matter how unsettling Linda’s presence may be at times. For Ada, who has suffered heartache after heartache and deserves to be part of a company that not only provides financial stability for her but will allow her and Karl to fulfil Freddie’s hopes - if they so please. For John and Esme, who have nearly produced more children than the years they’ve been together and yet are more distant than they were the day they wed. For Polly, because even if she still outspokenly dislikes Grace’s presence in their lives, she has nothing but adoration for Charlie, nothing but bountiful support for Tommy, and Grace cannot help but respect that.

Her own family is nothing but a scattering of distant relatives, an uncle and aunt who raised her but never really knew her, a mother and father dead and buried years before their time, a brother merely another casualty of the war. Her true family is Tommy and Charlie, and any other children that may come along. She chose to become a Shelby, chose to say yes when Tommy came to her at the hotel and asked her to marry him in a manner as close to begging as Tommy Shelby could possibly get.

She has chosen this family, and that means Grace will do whatever it takes to make them safe, even if Tommy protests her involvement. She isn’t going to hide away in some cottage in a village somewhere whilst Tommy does his best to sort everything out. She isn’t going to let her years of training, however dormant after four years, go to waste. She is Tommy’s wife, and she has just as much responsibility to see his dealings succeed as he does. If not for Tommy himself, then for Charlie.

For his own safety, it is best that she leaves their son behind with Tommy. Still, she cannot help but weep as the maids take her luggage downstairs, uncaring that she is crying openly in front of the staff. Mary presses a handkerchief into her hands gently, but the action merely makes her cry harder.

 It is only when Charlie is brought to her, her son unware that this shall be the last time they see each other, perhaps for months, that she forces herself to stop crying. If something is to happen to her, something that shall prevent her from seeing her son become a boy, a _man_ , then she doesn’t want their last moments spent together filled with the sound of her crying. She wants to hear him laugh, for the sound shall sustain her in the coming months. She would do almost anything for him, her son who looks so alike his father that his parentage could never be denied - to Polly’s disdain. How adamant she had been that Charlie was yet another one of Grace’s tricks, right up until their son was placed into Tommy’s arms, red faced and squalling but dark haired and blue eyed.

“I’ll be back, Charlie,” she murmurs. A hand smoothing over his hair, his weight in her lap comforting, she promises, “I swear to you, Mama will be back.”

Her son babbles something incomprehensible, clutching at the sleeve of her blouse. Her darker hair must confuse him, but she hopes he knows she is his mother and that she loves him more than life itself. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Tommy leaning against the doorframe, watching them silently, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. This is her time to say goodbye to Charlie, and she will not waste a second of it. Even if her son is unlikely to remember anything of these brief minutes, Grace takes care to study him, for she wants nothing more than to remember how soft his skin is under her hand, how blue his eyes are, what the babbling which makes utterly no sense to her whatsoever sounds like. She will need these memories if she is to last the months she must spend apart from them both, and whilst she knows Tommy perhaps better than she knows herself, their son is still somewhat of a mystery to her, Charlie changing everyday as he grows. She can only mourn the changes she won’t be able to witness, and hope that her son is still more baby than child when she returns.

God how she wishes she could take him with her, but she can’t. If the plan is to work, it must appear as if the Italians succeeded. And if she is truly dead, then Thomas Shelby would never let his son out of his sight, not even for a moment. Charlie would be all the more precious to him if she were truly gone, and that is what it must look like. They must all think Tommy a broken man, if they are to succeed in dealing with both the Italian threat and the Russians. She has made him promise that Ada shall take care of their son in her stead, for though she likes Mary, she does not want her putting Charlie to bed of a night, not when she has done it from the moment he was born. He is used to a mother’s touch, a mother’s soft murmur, and Ada is the only suitable replacement, the only one Grace wants looking after Charlie if she cannot.

Grace presses a kiss to Charlie’s forehead and gently uncurls his fingers from her blouse. As she stands up from the bed, she shifts him onto her hip, his head darting to look out the window. She doesn’t look herself, for she knows exactly what her son is peering at. A car, luggage packed neatly inside. Curly, leaning against the car, waiting.

_Waiting for her, but she does not want to leave._

“Grace.” Tommy looks at her from his position in the doorway, his wedding band still firmly on his finger. She’d told him that he should take it off, if he is to maintain the lie, but her husband had refused. He told her that he will continue to wear it no matter what people may say, so a part of her will remain here with them both, even if she is far away.

She nods at the sound of his voice, inhaling deeply.  As soon as she comes close enough, Tommy’s arms wrap around her, Charlie somewhat squished between them. He holds her for a heartbeat, then another, before they break apart. She barely has enough time to kiss Charlie once more before Mary relieves her of his weight, Tommy already halfway down the stairs, a cigarette dangling from his lips. She slowly follows her husband, pausing to study their family portrait one last time, remembering how determined Tommy was to have such a thing commissioned, a tangible display of their newfound status.

Why, when she knows she will return, does this feel all too much like a goodbye?

She shakes her head gently as if to clear her mind of such thoughts as she steps down from the staircase, watching the dark waves that now comprise her hair shift out of the corner of her eye. Tommy lights his cigarette, his posture stiff, and she comes to stand beside him, taking his hand.

“You will make us safe,” she says, reiterating the promise he made to her on their wedding night. She stares directly ahead, for she knows if she meets his eyes she might start crying all over again – and there will be time enough for that, later.

“I will make us safe,” Tommy vows, squeezing her hand tightly. “I will make those bastards rue the day they thought they could take you away from me.” He stubs out his cigarette under his shoe, and pulls her close to him, a desperate embrace. One equally desperate kiss later and she forces herself to part from him, making her way towards the waiting car.

She does not look back.

\---

An ornate coffin is buried under the tombstone for one ‘Grace Helen Shelby, beloved wife and mother’. Aside from the shattered pieces of a sapphire, rumoured to be cursed, it is empty.  

\---

She has been dead for three weeks when Tommy writes her a letter. Cornwell is cold and rainy, and she places the letter in front of the fire to dry before she is able to read it. She watches it carefully, for there is nothing else to do. The rain pelts against the window, her cottage almost as small as her apartment in Birmingham had been. Here, she is Saoirse, an Irish girl who has fallen on hard times and is in need of a fresh start.  Here, she is unwed, childless, and desperate for any news.

 _The Italians are finished_ , the letter reads. _Changretta and his son are dead, just as I promised. Ada says I should have taken up acting, says I am playing the part of grieving widow all too well. She wants me to tell you that Charlie is well, thriving, although he asks for you constantly. He wants nothing more than for you to return, and I know exactly what that feels like._

_But you cannot return, not yet. It is not just the Russians we’re facing, but the damned Economic League and Father Hughes as well. I think they’re the ones who threatened Charlie, do you remember? I vow to you, I will not let them hurt him. But they think you are dead, and for the moment I would have it remain that way._

For a moment she thinks about throwing the letter into the fire in frustration, but the last lines force her to reconsider. _I love you. Both of you._

“You keep Charlie safe,” she had ordered him, just she had handed their son over to Mary. “You keep him safe, and I will be sure to do the same for his sibling.” Tommy’s reaction had been a swift blink, followed by a nod and an all too brief touch of her belly.

The chaos meant that there hadn’t be a chance to tell him, but a man as smart as Tommy Shelby knew when his wife was expecting. He’d probably known before she did, the bastard, her missed courses and tender breasts confirmed by the doctor to be signs of pregnancy. It should have been glorious news, a reason to celebrate, and yet here she is, three months pregnant and alone in Cornwell. Her new neighbours won’t look too kindly on her once her belly swells, her lack of wedding band marking her condition as something to curse, not celebrate. But, she vows, she will not be here long enough to let their judgement affect her whatsoever.

Tommy’s letter is placed safely away, a blank sheet of writing paper taken out of her desk drawer. Ink in hand, she begins to write, her years of tediously practicing cursive never as important as they are right now. Her husband may have bid her to stay safely away, but that does not render her powerless.

\---

_Dear Uncle,_

_If you have heard the rumours of my death, fear not. I assure you, I am well – better than ever, in fact, as I am expecting once more. We are overjoyed at the prospect of giving Charlie a sibling, a sister I believe, if mother’s intuition is to be trusted. I am thinking of naming her after Mama, if you do not find that disagreeable._

_I am writing to you because I have concerns Uncle, concerns that I do not wish to approach my husband with. He has recently been in contact with a man, a Father Hughes, and I confess, the man does frighten me somewhat. I do not wish to trouble you, for I know you are a busy man, but if you could possibly make inquiries amongst your friends within government about this Hughes, I would be most grateful. We believe he may have plans to threaten Charlie in order to hurt Thomas._

_Do note the Cornwell address. Sadly, I find this pregnancy to be quite tiresome, and the doctor has advised me to rest so Charlie and I are taking a break from it all. I do wish the weather were better, but our neighbours assure me that a Cornwell summer is quite a sight to behold._

_Your loving niece,_

_Grace Helen Burgess Shelby._

\---

Her daughter has moved inside her for the first time when her uncle’s reply to her letter arrives, Grace’s hair thankfully still as dark as the day she left Tommy and her son. She misses Charlie dreadfully, but the presence of his sibling is a comfort to her, although she wishes Tommy were here to feel her move under his hand. He had never looked as content as he had the morning he first felt Charles move, Grace’s belly bare under his hand and her hair mussed from sleep.

 _Dearest niece_ , her uncle writes.

_I admit, I was most grateful to receive your letter. We had heard the rumours, and were beginning to worry when this letter arrived and quickly assuaged all our fears. We both offer our deepest congratulations to you and Thomas on the pregnancy, and wish you to know that whatever name you choose for your daughter, your mother would be so very proud of you._

_As you asked, I did make inquiries about this Father Hughes. Grace, I confess, the information I managed to gather is of such a nature that at first I did not wish to concern you with it, not when you are in such a delicate state. But you are truly your mother’s daughter, and my sister would have preferred to know everything rather than be kept in the dark._

_I am told that this Hughes, although a man of God, has had encounters with children that are unseemly and should have ensured his immediate removal from such a position. However, in my opinion this is not the most concerning thing. Do you remember the Russian guest you had at your wedding? I did think his presence odd, but said nothing of it, for fear of spoiling your day. I am unaware if Thomas is involved in business with the Russians, but please do take care._

_I regret to inform you, seeing as you believe Hughes capable of threatening your son – my contacts believe Hughes to be a man of the lowest calibre. If you so wish, our house is always open to you. Otherwise, do enjoy the Cornwall weather. I remember it being horrendously windy._

_Your aunt requests that I ask you to kiss Charles for us._

_Lieutenant Burgess._

The wind howls, and so does she.

\---

She makes plans quickly, the anguish which has risen in her after her uncle’s information fuelling her determination. Tommy writes only infrequently, mere scraps of information, and so she seeks out other sources – old contacts from her time as an agent of the Crown, contacts of her uncle. Her years of letter writing and etiquette lessons have never been more important, for they taught her exactly how to wheedle information out of a man. Polite words, to begin with, flattery and praise and references to her desperation, and if they all prove unhelpful, violence. There is nothing a man will not reveal if the barrel of a gun is pressed firmly to his temple, or a knife is digging into his throat.

Her belly grows, her dresses rendered tighter by her condition. She retreats into her cottage, marked as a recluse by the rest of the town. She knows they all whisper about her, convinced that she has suffered some terrible tragedy that has caused her to be so unwelcoming of company.

But she hasn’t. Not yet. And, hopefully, the only person who suffers shall be Father Hughes, at her very hands.   

She scrubs the dye out of her hair, and packs her meagre belongings.

“I’m going home,” she tells no one, a smile crossing her lips for the first time in weeks.

\--- 

Father Hughes has her son. She does not know how, but that does not matter. All she is concerned about is putting a bullet in that man’s head before he lifts a finger against her son, her Charlie. He is the only pure thing in her life, innocent in every way, and she will not let him be hurt because of who his parents might be.

Her informant tells her that her husband has sent Peaky Blinders to rescue Charlie in his stead and the thought infuriates her. Their son, and Tommy cannot be bothered disposing of Father Hughes himself. Hands clenched, she demands an address.

She’ll kill him herself.

(But Michael is already there when she arrives, the only one in the family who knew her as Tommy’s Grace, not Campbell’s agent).

When she sees him, some of her anger at Tommy fades away – for she knows that he would only entrust Michael to such a task if he was confident in his success, knows that out of all the Shelbys Michael is as near to Tommy himself as can be.

But Michael is seemingly frozen – with fear? With concern for what he is about to do? Grace is not sure, but the only thing that matters is that he cannot move whereas she certainly can. Her son is in the next room, she can hear his quiet babble, and she will not let Michael’s inability to put one foot in front of the other allow Charlie to be hurt in any way.

She hears Michael inhale audibly as she hurries past him, and knows what he must be thinking. A ghost, risen from the dead. But there is no time to reassure him of her tangibility, not when her son is not yet safe in her arms. Her small gun is a solid weight in her hands, rendering her more threat than friend, and she knows a man will be dead before the next hour comes.

She does not see fit to announce her presence as she enters the small room, but Father Hughes immediately notices her, rising to his feet, mouth pursued. Her son is on the floor, seemingly safe, but still, her blood boils and the grasp on her gun tightens.

“Mrs. Shelby,” Father Hughes says. Eyebrow arched, he informs her, “You died.”

“You should really check the contents of a coffin before you make such a foolish presumption,” she tells him, lifting her gun. Her hand is steady, her aim true. He opens his mouth as if to retort, but he is dead before he can get the words out, a bullet in his head and a bullet in his chest. The second shot is most likely unnecessary, but satisfying nonetheless. There was room for six bullets altogether in her gun. Two might be gone now, but she will not hesitate to use the remaining four if anyone tries to stop her taking her son and leaving.

“Mama,” Charlie babbles, eyes wide as he looks up at her. How he looks like his father. She knows the babe inside her will most likely enter the world with the same dark hair and blue eyes, no matter how much its father might long for a daughter that looks exactly like its mother. Her children are Shelbys through and through, and none shall be able to deny their parentage. She will make them safe, and they will live.

She bends down to take Charlie in her arms, her belly making the act of carrying him somewhat difficult. Michael steps forward as if to relieve her of him, but she refuses, shaking her head and shifting Charlie until he is resting on her hip. She won’t be able to carry him for long, but home is not far.

“Come, Charlie,” she murmurs, stepping out of the room. There is a blood stain on one of her shoes, but they were an old pair anyway, and far too tight on her feet. She'll buy new ones. “It’s time to go home.”

\---

The first thing she sees as she steps through the door, Michael beside her, is that horrendous portrait Tommy had commissioned of her, the one she bemoaned made her look more like a statue than a woman. It is horrible, truly, and she resolves to have it not only taken down, but burnt. She is not that woman anymore. Perhaps she never was.

She orders the butler to contact Tommy and let him know that Charles is safe. He stares at her as if she has two heads, as if she has just risen from the grave and is covered with dirt. When he comes to his senses and nods in acquiescence, he asks her if she wishes to let Tommy know that she has also returned home.  Grace merely looks at him and shakes her head.

In some way, she thinks not telling him might be fitting retribution, for Tommy has seen fit to keep her in the dark all these months. The other part of her thinks it will be better for her husband to return home and find both her and their son, safe. All of her though, all of her merely wants to inhale deeply for the first time in months, her son now more boy than baby. Michael excuses himself to the kitchens, murmuring something about making her a cup of tea, a cigarette already dangling from his lips. He is more alike Tommy than Arthur, John and Finn combined, the shared name adding to the similarity.  And he is much easier to get along with than his mother.

Charles on her hip, she carefully manages the stairs, seeking the comfort she can only find in their bedroom. There she can pretend like nothing has happened, like this is a normal day, that she has been here all along. One of Charlie’s fingers find its way into her hair, but she doesn’t bother to remove it. Her vanity is just as she left it, the photograph of her and Tommy proudly propped up. She places Charlie gently down on the neatly made bed, and inhales deeply.

She swears she can smell her perfume.

\---

She hears Tommy long before she sees him, the screech of the car, the slam of the door, the sound of his shoes as he runs through the house, his bellow of his voice. The sun has only just risen, and Charlie’s hair is still mussed from sleep. She let him sleep beside her, but from his agreeable nature she suspects Tommy has been allowing such an action ever since she went away. They’ll have to get him used to his own bed once more, before the baby comes. The bed is not quite big enough for four people.

Let alone three.

She knew, of course. She didn’t want to believe it, but she knew. Duchess Tatiana, in her house, in her bedroom, wearing her perfume. Mary has confirmed it, and although she knows that it would’ve entirely been a strategic move on Tommy’s behalf, the thought of her, of them together, still stings somewhat.

But she is, was, and always will be Mrs. Thomas Shelby. His wife and the mother of his children. That means far more than anything else ever will.

He stops at the sight of her, one of her nightgown straps halfway down her arm. She offers him a small smile, Charlie clambering into her lap, limbs askew. She presses a kiss to his temple, smoothing back his hair, before patting the bed next to her. Tommy moves silently, inhaling sharply. She can see the grime on his skin, the dirt under his fingernails. She doesn’t know exactly what he has just done, but she knows her husband. She can see the torment in his eyes.

Still, that does not stop her. “How was the Duchess?” she queries.

Tommy looks at her. “It was just business Grace,” he tells her, voice coarse. She meets his gaze, exhaling a breath she didn’t realise she was holding and nods.

 _There’s business and there’s love_. She told that to Mary Carleton well over two years ago, and the statement still rings true. 

Tommy’s hand comes to rest on her belly, the dirt on his fingers a sharp contrast to the white fabric. “How is our baby, eh?” he asks, leaning forward to cup Charlie’s cheek with his free hand. Their son babbles something incomprehensible, peering up at both of his parents.

Grace rests her hand on top of Tommy’s, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on his skin. “Strong,” she informs him, smiling. “Just like her brother.” 

Tommy’s lips quirk upwards, a subtle sign of his delight, her husband straightening. She turns her head towards him, their children secure in her lap, and offers her mouth to him. He tastes like the earth, and she wants to surround herself with him.

But first, there are things to attend to.

“Go, finish your business,” she tells him, when they part. She arches an eyebrow at him. “But be quick about it,” she orders, standing up from the bed. Charlie on her hip, she makes her way to the window, nightgown clinging to her belly. “She’s due to move around anytime now, and I don’t want you to miss it.”

Tommy nods, coming to stand behind her. A kiss pressed to the nape of her neck, he murmurs, “One last piece of business. Then we’ll be safe.”

“Yes Tommy,” she assures him. “One last piece of business, and then we will be safe.”

\---

Except, not all of them are. Not yet, anyway. Powerful men, after all, generally like to use others as scapegoats for their mistakes. And her husband is but a man – an exhausted, desperate man.

Tommy calls a family meeting, and she makes sure to be in attendance, Charlie napping upstairs. Michael would have told them of her reappearance, so nothing is uttered about her presence beside Tommy. Ada offers her a smile, and John merely arches an eyebrow.

Tommy makes a show of doling out the profits, as she knew he would. It seems Ada was right about his acting ability, for she sees no sign of guilt on her husband’s face, even though she knows what he is about to doing pains him immensely.

It is chaos when they are arrested, voices intermingling with one another. 

When the room is empty, Tommy collapses into his chair, head bowed. She places a hand on his neck, fingers spread. He rises a moment later, defeated, and makes his way to the open door, the same door only months before they entered through as man and wife.

She comes to stand beside him, her hand slipping into his. The cars have long since gone, his family inside them, but still Tommy stands, as if his blank, unblinking stare could will it to return.

“You made us safe,” Grace reminds him. “Just as you promised.” He says nothing in reply, but she presses on. “You will make them safe,” she tells him - _orders_ him. “Just as you promised. We will make them safe.”

“Grace,” is all Tommy can seemingly say, exhaling loudly. He clutches at her hand desperately.

“I’m here, Thomas,” she murmurs. “By your side. I’m here, and I am going help you. With everything. ‘The whole fucking thing’,” she quotes, the curse word escaping her mouth as easily as breathing.

A hand resting on her belly, she stands by her husband’s side until the sun sets.

**Author's Note:**

> My tombstone is probably going to read "Grace Burgess deserved better". Like, seriously.


End file.
